Does Alone Really Protect You?
by MolotovsandAngst
Summary: Sherlock and John try to get on with their lives without each other, finding it hard in doing so. How will they react after seeing each other for the first time in three years? {First part: Focuses on their lives without each other and later, culminates to Sherlock's decision to return to Baker St.;Rated M for later chapters}
1. Introduction

Once Again Alone

_Alone. _The word defined the consulting detective's life. Though there were some who cared for him or rather worried about him, he preferred living his life alone. _Alone protected him. _That's how it was meant to be.

_"But now, why?" _He asked himself. _"Why?" _As his back slumped against the wall, and he slid down to the floor. _"Why do I care so much about being alone?" _He felt this sudden emptiness that was so strange and foreign to him. It felt as if there was an aching in his heart and with every beat, it throbbed painfully. Of course, it was more in a figurative sense rather than a literal. But, why? Sherlock never cared before, _he never cared. _Why now? This question repeated like an endless echo in his mind over and over again. He could probably figure out the answer but he was afraid the only answer he came up with, was true.

"Sherlock Holmes. Afraid of emotions and attachments," he muttered to himself with a light scoff. "Pathetic." Though, wasn't it true? He was afraid of forming attachments with people and developing some sort of positive, rather than negative emotions towards them. This is how it ended up anyhow. Relationships broke you down. They broke you down into an emotional wreck, reduced you to a pitiful being. Sherlock hated pity.

Picking himself up and brushing himself off, Sherlock trudged over to his room, made his way to the bed, and collapsed into it. Maybe tonight he'd get some sort of sleep. He hadn't had much good, peaceful sleep in three years. Three years since his supposed death. There wasn't a day that went by when he didn't think of that day on the roof of St. Barts.

The diligent detective was used to going on for days, even weeks on end without any sleep at all. He thought his usual lifestyle would help him with the days ahead since his disappearance. Moriarty's henchman was out to get him, and until now, Sherlock couldn't detect a single trace of the sniper. Staying in hiding was quite the nerve-racking experience. Combined with the emotions he was experiencing, emotions he did not know how to deal with, he honestly was at his wit's end. The thoughts that flooded his mind caused him to fist the sheets into his hands, clutching tightly, "Bloody hell..."

Despite all of it, all the feelings and anguish, Sherlock Holmes never once shed a tear. He had enough of crying that one day. He wouldn't let another tear streak his cheek. That was the last time he'd show his tears. Only that once for his best friend. John.

...

Please be alive.

Three whole years. The longest three years of his life and the days still seemed to drag on. Mrs. Hudson was quite worried and hadn't stopped phoning him weekly since they parted at the cemetery. John had rented his own flat and had Lestrade get his things from the old flat he shared with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He refused to go back, he refused to even set foot on Baker Street. John stayed as far away from that part of London as possible. Sometimes he would pass through, because the cab he was taking would use a route going through the nostalgic street. But he wouldn't spare a glance at the door marked 221B.

Today was one of those days. His eyes immediately began to water as he saw the street the taxi turned in to. He would protest but it was too late. Keeping his head down, eyes averted from the buildings, he felt the familiar cobblestone road beneath the car as they rolled over it. "If Sherlock could see me now...heh." The former army doctor muttered under his breath. "You're too emotional, John. What in the world's wrong with you? That's what you're saying up there, right, Sherlock?" He shook his head and took a deep, shaky breath.

It'd been three years already. There was no need to be so emotional, really. John had stopped attending his therapy sessions. Nothing could help him get over this. His best friend had died. _Died. Committed suicide. _He was there to watch and see his friend jump off the hospital roof. His jaw clenched as the flashbacks appeared in his mind. Leaning over in his seat, he rested his head on the back of the front passenger seat. It was useless to mull over, cry over, think over the things that had happened. He knew if he was the one that died, Sherlock wouldn't be dwelling on it everyday. He really wasn't the type to. He never really cared much.

John groaned quietly at his thoughts. _"No, I shouldn't be so negative... Well, Sherlock was such a cold bastard.." _He chuckled softly with a sad but smiling expression. _"Oh Sherlock.. are you really dead?" _John silently wished that his friend wasn't gone, that he was playing some sick joke. _"Hah, Sherlock? Play a joke? Never." _

John never let go though of that one wish, the one miracle he requested at the gravesite. _"Please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me?" _His breath lodged in his throat as the words rang in his mind. "Please..."


	2. The Early Days

"Nothing happens to me."

The early months of Sherlock's "suicide". Sort of a flashback. -

A knock, then another, and five more after that. John wouldn't get up from the bed, no matter how many more times they knocked; whoever it was. He'd stay in bed for as long as he wanted, like the couple of days before. He hadn't felt the sun for what seemed like decades. This depression didn't compare to the depression he'd experienced before. War was a very different thing from witnessing your best friend's suicide.

The knocks wouldn't cease. John had thought it was a delivery man or something. But the familiar voice that now called out to him proved otherwise.

"John! Get your arse out of bed! Are you even alive? Get up, get up!" It was Lestrade. The man in the bed groaned and pulled the pillow over his head, muffling the noises. _"Why is he here?" _Lestrade hardly came over, let alone come over just to wake him up. He guessed Mrs. Hudson finally got worried from him not answering the phone for the past few days she had called. She had probably sent the Scotland Yard inspector to check on him. The doctor couldn't deny that he needed it, but he really didn't want it. John believed he could get by on his own. A few days in bed, without sunshine, barely eating; that was all fine. _"Yeah.. just fine." _

Finally having enough of the incessant knocking, John yelled from under his pillow, throwing it to the foot of the bed. "Okay, okay! I'm up! I'll be right there.." He sat up on the bed and took a deep breath before struggling up to his feet, weaving through the rooms, and wobbling over to the door. His knee had clearly gotten worse and it hurt like hell for the past few weeks or so. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, trying to smooth it back best he could. He placed his hand on the knob and just stared at it. Should he open it? With a deep sigh and a shake of the head, he forced himself to open the door. He forced himself to smile. He forced himself to appear happy. It all felt so wrong.

"Hello Greg. What brings you around?" John chimed, the feigned happiness tinting his words. Leaning a hand against the door jam to maintain his balance, he could feel his knee throbbing.

Lestrade gave him a look; not a very happy one at that. "What do you mean what am I doing here? Why haven't you been picking up your mobile, answering your texts? Do you have any idea what day it is, John? No one's seen you for days. Mrs. Hudson is worried sick."

"Oh, sorry, I must have been busy. I'm working again so I haven't been too keen on returning any calls. I'll call Mrs. Hudson today." John lied and gave a quick nod, the smile that felt so wrong still plastered on his face.

"Don't lie, John. You're really not good at it. No one's seen you. Mycroft's apparently been keeping surveillance on you and well, you haven't been out of your apartment in three days. Does your practice work from here? Is that it?"

The army doctor looked a bit sheepish then, having been caught in a lie, and he rubbed at the back of his neck. "No, um.. no. Sorry, I.. I just haven't been up to it lately. I haven't been.. uh, up to dealing with everything."

The other man simply sighed, dropping his arms to his sides. "Alright.. Mind if I come in? I have to have some sort of report for Mrs. Hudson."

"Yeah, uh, come in. Sorry, I haven't been able to tidy up the flat lately. Let's sit at the coffee table." John turned around and walked back in, heading towards the table, and clearing it of a couple of old newspapers. The apartment wasn't such a bad mess. Asides from a few scattered newspapers and mail atop the desk and coffee table, the apartment wasn't too untidy.

Lestrade followed him in, shutting the door behind him. "You don't update your blog anymore. I check it every week." The Scotland Yard official knew it was probably because of the fact there really was nothing to blog about anymore now Sherlock was gone. But, the man would have to get over it some time. Although it had only been three months, he couldn't stay depressed forever. Greg was indeed also saddened by the loss. Although the consultant wasn't the most loved man in London, he was quite a man. He'd assisted them in the toughest of cases and had cracked every one of them. He was somewhat of a friend but, he was gone. What else could they do? Life had to move on.

"Nothing to blog. Nothing happens to me." The words had a bit of nostalgia to them. John remembered the same words passing the same pair of lips when he had uttered them to his therapist about two years ago. After that day, he had met Sherlock Holmes. That very day his life was changed and things had begun to happen. So now he wished maybe something could change his life again. Maybe they were the magic words he needed to say so something extraordinary would appear or happen to him. "Take a seat."

Taking the invitation, Lestrade sat down into the wooden chair. "Well, maybe you could blog about what you think of some of the cases in the papers. Maybe your predictions on what the motive was, or perhaps some good old-fashioned deductions?" He was probably touching a sensitive subject but he had to do something. John wasn't going to get any better if he kept everything bottled up inside. Mrs. Hudson had told him that John wouldn't even open up to her about the subject. That he'd quickly dismiss or change the subject when arose.

"D'you want some coffee, Greg? Or tea?" Quickly, John disappeared into the kitchen, stopping just behind the wall. Yes, he was avoiding the subject again but he refused to speak about it. He knew there was no use in shutting himself in, covering up his feelings. But everything about Sherlock would stay in a figurative box at the back of his mind. No matter how much it killed him, he'd never speak about it.

Lestrade sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment. "I'll have coffee, John, thank you." There appeared to be no use in bringing up the subject. The man had dismissed it, didn't even comment. It was as if there was a wall, and no one could pass through.

After he had set up the coffeemaker, the man emerged from the kitchen, settling in a seat across from the professional detective. "How're Anderson and Donovan doing?"

"Fine. Anderson's divorced. Big surprise. He and Donovan are having a go at it. But I'm sure someone knew that before we did." He paused, " And Donovan's looking for a raise. She isn't going to get one. Not in this economy."

John chuckled slightly, looking down at his hands, and picking at his nails. "Some people never change, I suppose. Have you spoken to Molly recently?"

Lestrade shook his head, scrunching his face up a bit, "Nah, I haven't really been to the morgue. Usually one of the other detectives go there if there's a body to identify or any evidence to pick up. Have you?"

"Yeah, actually we had a run in last week at the market. She seems to be doing alright. We didn't talk much though, her lunch break was running out."

"That's good she's doing alright then." After his last remark, an awkward silence descended between the two men. There wasn't much to talk about, really. John would ask about any cases that seemed of interest but what good would that do for him? He couldn't use any special methods such as his old friend had, he wouldn't want to try, it'd bring back the old memories of their adventures. Truthfully, almost everything he had done and everywhere he had gone with Sherlock, their daily activities were soon ceased after his death. Everything he did was just another reminder of his again dull life.

Soon, the coffeemaker beeped, reminding them of the coffee that was brewing in the kitchen. "I'll get that," John said as he staggered up from his chair, limping to the kitchen. Readying a tray on the table, he poured the coffee in two mugs.

As John was preparing the coffee, Lestrade silently waited in the next room. He shuffled through a couple newspapers, and shifted his eyes around the room, having nothing else to do. Although the doctor tried to keep up a jovial attitude, Lestrade could tell the man wasn't right. It was apparent the first he opened the door. He debated on whether he should confront John, have him realize that he had to move on. Doubting himself though, he thought maybe it'd cause the other to further sink into his depression. But, Lestrade couldn't help but think that it just might be the push John needed to get out of it. Mrs. Hudson had showed him enough affection, perhaps now was time for a wake up call. The doctor was after all considered a friend, he needed help whether he welcomed it or not.

When John walked back into the room, the detective turned in his chair to face him, quickly standing up. "Let me help you with that.." Reaching out, he took the tray in his hands, gingerly placing it on the table.

Smiling slightly, John thanked him in appreciation, resuming his seat. "Cream and sugar's on the side. I didn't know what you liked." Grabbing his own mug and adding his preferred condiments, the blonde-haired man remained silent, staring into the swirling coffee as he stirred it.

The inspector's visit was cut short by a phone call from Donovan, much to the doctor's relief and much to Lestrade's dismay. He'd have his talk with John another time. Giving a friendly apology and a quick farewell, the bustling man rushed out the door, leaving John sitting at the table alone. Sighing, he picked up the abandoned cup and his own, returning them to the kitchen. After washing them up, he leaned back against the countertop, burying his face into his open palms. He was going back to bed.

...

Can I manage without you?

A very groggy brunette man plodded into the living room, squinted green/blue eyes peering around the room. A hand ran through thick, curly locks as the male trudged to the kitchenette, fumbling around for a mug. Once he found it, Sherlock made his way to the prepared coffee in the brewer, pouring some into his mug. Drinking the straight black liquid, his eyes shot open and he shook his head briskly. Finally wide-awake, he added his cream and sugar. Shuffling over to his desk, he plopped into the swivel chair and opened his laptop.

Every morning this was his routine, Sherlock would flip open his laptop and scan through the news page of any website, most particularly the crimes section. He'd outwardly blurt out his opinions, often talking to himself about his opinions and deductions, and writing down the possible motives and solutions.

Clawing his hand around the desk, searching for a pen, he shouted out, "John, get me a pen!" After a few moments of silence, the man's features became irritated and he finally pried his eyes away from the computer, looking back, "John, I said, get-" He caught himself, and sighed heavily, standing up from his seat. It was something that happened a lot. Sherlock would call out for John, or he would start rambling off about something he was reading off the internet and he'd start talking as if his former flatmate were there. It often bothered the detective that he'd been so dependant.

Fetching his own pen, he returned to his chair, scrolling down the page when a knock was heard at the door. Startled, Sherlock instinctively pulled open his desk drawer, taking out his revolver. Slowly getting up from the seat, the anxious man made cautious steps towards the door. This was how his life had been the past three months whenever there'd been a knock at the door. Only one person knew of his whereabouts, he wasn't sure it'd remain that way. Peeking through the peep hole, Sherlock exhaled a heavy sigh as he unlocked the door and pulled it open. "Good morning, Molly."

"O-oh! I hope I didn't wake you! Good morning! I brought you some breakfast," the light-haired female beamed, holding up a plastic bag.

"Alright, thank you." Sherlock grabbed the bag from her hands and nodded to her. "Did anyone follow you here?"

"Of course not. I made sure of it."

"So, I trust you've applied everything I told you?"

"Yes, Sherlock. It's fine. There's a newspaper in the bag by the way. I thought you'd like to have a look at the new cases." Molly smiled lightly, clasping her hands in front of her.

"Yes, thank you again. You can run along now." He began to shut the door when Molly exclaimed something he hadn't expected.

"I saw John at the market last week!" She proclaimed, and added as Sherlock began opening the door again slowly, "I just thought you'd liked to know..." Gulping nervously, she looked up at the detective's piercing gaze. Though now not as piercing, his blue/green hues were sorrowful and a bit surprised.

"Is.. is he alright? How'd he look?" He started out, resenting the crack in his voice. He attempted his usual rigid look but at John's name, he really couldn't help but appear slightly saddened.

"He looked just fine, but a bit... lost? I don't know how to explain it. We didn't get to talk much.. My lunch hour was running out.. But, he did look a bit off."

"I see. Thank you, Molly. I will text you tomorrow." With that, he shut the door before Molly could bid him a good day.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock spun on his heel and walked straight back into his apartment, setting the plastic bag on the desk. _"John.." _The consultant wondered what his former flatmate was up to nowadays. When they were together, all they did was hunt down criminals together, chase down cases. It was a rare sight to see Sherlock without John or John without Sherlock. Unless of course John was out on a date. But even then, the army doctor always chose his best friend over his girlfriends. If there were an emergency, he'd literally leave his date hanging, alone at the restaurant or wherever. Not too happy about it, but he would immediately oblige. It definitely wasn't the same without the other. Sherlock would admit that much aloud if needed. It took a lot to sway the curly-haired detective. It took a lot to make him genuinely feel something.

Snatching up the newspaper Molly had given him, Sherlock flipped through the pages and found the crimes section. Hopefully this would wipe the sentimental emotions out of his mind for a bit.

Most of the cases were boring and ordinary. Only rarely were some of any particular interest. It was quite difficult for him this way. All the hiding prevented him from actually solving anything. Without seeing anything, he had absolutely nothing to deduce. He was useless! His brain wasn't completely active this way and one would expect he couldn't be physically active at all, really. Sherlock could barely take this lifestyle. Let alone for months. If he absolutely had to, the detective would create some sort of disguise for himself and walk about the city. But, even that was dangerous. With that sniper hanging around and hunting for him, his life wasn't exactly something he could live right now. This irked him immensely. Usually, he'd have some of his drugs for times like this to calm him, distract him. But of course, Molly wouldn't supply him with something of the like. He thought of going out and getting it himself but it was too risky. He didn't have the exact means to make a better disguise and of course, Molly would get suspicious if he asked for anything out of the ordinary. That'd be a bother, definitely. Reading the paper was his only solace. The closest way he could live his former life.

It took some effort for Sherlock to adjust to his new life. He was a very precise person, this made him paranoid. Especially with the threat looming over his head. A knock at the door, a noise outside his window, the anonymous creaks in any part of the flat, would cause him to reach for his revolver or to look all about and over his shoulder. He had no peace. Sometimes he would think to himself that maybe it would've been a lot easier to include John into the fold. Let him know his plans to hide. Maybe even bring John with him. But, it wouldn't have worked out. Maybe it would have been easier for Sherlock, but it would have made things harder for everyone else. For everyone who mattered to him. It was a select few, but they mattered nonetheless. If he had told John, it would've been obvious at the very start that Sherlock was indeed not dead. The doctor wasn't a very good liar, so that'd make him an even worse actor. It had to be convincing that the consultant was gone. Dead. Nonexistent. Moriarty may have been a deranged man but he was no simpleton. He would've trained his right hand man very well. No, Sherlock couldn't risk putting everyone is such direct danger. He had to have the world believe he was dead. That included John Watson. Whether the detective liked it or not. The only reason why he confided and included the morgue assistant into his plan was because she had the means of which to seal the plan and she wasn't stubborn. The rather manipulative consultant could have her do almost anything he wanted and she'd obey right away. It never meant that he didn't care for her somewhat. With this situation... she was the only person he could trust. Of course, the action he took was effective.

He set aside the newspaper, leaned back in his chair and shut his eyes. His large, pale-skinned hands came up to his face, smoothing over his features. There was no room for regret or doubt now. What's done is done. He had successfully managed in protecting the people he cared about or remotely cared about. _Molly. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. __**John. **_

**John. **_"Can I manage without you?" _Was his every thought of every day.


End file.
